


Drop

by immortalitylost



Series: immortalitylost's Harringrove for Australia [1]
Category: Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Downward Spiral, Grieving, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Maybe murder, Perhaps David Lives, Possible Feeding, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vampire Turning, you decide for yourselves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22280080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immortalitylost/pseuds/immortalitylost
Summary: Do you miss David?That's the question.Thequestion that Michael keeps circling back to in the aftermath of the fight.Do you miss David?And the answer might not be no.
Relationships: David/Michael Emerson (Lost Boys)
Series: immortalitylost's Harringrove for Australia [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603687
Comments: 19
Kudos: 77
Collections: harringrove for Australia





	Drop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missroserose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missroserose/gifts).



* * *

He’d been looking at Star that night in the cave.

Michael absently kissed the top of her warm head, the both of them post-sex sweat slick and tangled up in the sheets, in each other.

He’d been looking at her and he’d only _felt_ David looking at him. Hadn’t seen. Because he hadn’t been looking at David. He’d only had eyes for Star.

Except—

He closed his eyes. Tried to think—to remember. That night in the underground ruins of the old hotel, what had really happened? Had Michael’s eyes drifted to David after all, regal on his junky wheelchair throne, ghostly in an inexplicable shaft of brilliant illumination; face picked out in whites, in pale blues? That face stark against all the black he wore, the black surrounding. Unearthly, the way his pale skin was touched by that filtered finger of moonlight; glowing with that spotlight from above.

It’s impossible that Michael hadn’t been looking at him.

David in the light, ethereal and sharp. Star in the shadows behind, soft and blurred, her eyes black-hole pools.

And he’d been looking at _them_.

At them _both_.

He could admit that now.

He kissed Star’s hair again. Swallowed down the question—the constant question—because he couldn’t ask her. He couldn’t ask her that. Not now. Not after—

Do you miss David?

 _That_ question. _The_ question.

Swallowed down the crept up taste of that dusty bottle of blood like he always did. Taste of that night. Taste that always prompts the question. Of Davids lips on his lips, David transferred over glass. A secondhand kiss. A kiss vicarious.

The taste crept up on him at the strangest times. Jumped him unawares. And he licked his lips. And he swallowed it down. And he knew it’d always come back.

But when?

When?

Crazy with the waiting for it.

The taste of David on that bottle, mostly imagined, mostly the thrill of the thought of David’s lips on that bottle that Michael’s lips were touching. Taste ethereal as David in the light, his pale hard features demanding attention as he’d taken a swig to show Michael how it was done—as he’d closed his eyes like the drink alone had brought him pleasure. Like the taste of it alone—

And Michael watched David drink. Watched his face as he drank. And Michael’s dick gave an interested twitch at the sight. He’d probably blushed. He was probably blushing now at the memory. At the thought.

He’d wanted to taste that bottle, too.

Did _he_ miss David?

The answer might not be no.

Michael untangled himself from the sheets. From Star. Untangled himself from her questions and the hot still air of his room and the walls of his house. Paced outside. Wore the porch wood down in his slipped on, untied shoes. Let the breeze cool his chest where his leather jacket—and who had he been trying to impress with that—gaped open over nothing. Draped bare over his skin. Worn loosely like the night. Like his shoes. Like his thoughts.

Couldn’t commit.

Needed to untangle.

The memory of that night; worn loose. Of that bottle. Loose like his limbs after that first drink. “It’s blood,” Star had said, and sure it was—sure—and Michael wouldn’t have cared _if_ it was at that point—and of course it was, she’d been dead right about that—because the thought of his lips touching that bottle was all consuming.

Was consuming him.

And after. Once he’d consumed the contents of that bottle, tasted its glassy rim for that fragile flavor of lips left prior, somehow it was worth the wait. Satisfying the way nothing with that much build up ever seemed to be. And it _was_ pleasure.

Enough pleasure to lose himself in.

Enough pleasure to drown him.

And David’s mouth caressed Michael’s name through that long night. Each syllable of it like hands on him. Each touch as David passed like a whisper of a name. Michael. And he’d been watching David then. Oh yes. Eyes locked. Only David. And Star had been lost to the shadows that night. To the shadows she was made of. And the world was only David in the moonlight and the whispered breath of a name. His name.

Michael.

David was dead now. Michael had killed him.

And by noon on the day that Michael had killed him, David’s body had been gone.

When they’d finally made their way back around to the antler room, back around to the problem that they were all avoiding, the one of David’s body—the only whole body left in the wake of the fear-soaked, blooded night—it had been gone. No sign left behind as to where it had disappeared to.

No tangible clue left to follow. No dribbling trail of blood headed for the nearby busted-out window. But Michael had felt some sort of pull from that direction. Tasted some secret on the air. Hadn’t seen any sign, track—not through all the clutter and mess on the floor. Through all the plaster dust and wood chips and the chunks of once-lively things. He hadn’t seen. Didn’t know with any certainty what had become of David.

And so he hadn’t mentioned that pull, that feeling, to anyone. And that not mentioning had felt like picking a side.

At the time it had felt like the wrong side—the thought bitter. But like memories, the thought of that choice only sweetened over time. More and more becoming rosy on his tongue. And now he’s glad he hadn’t told. Glad.

That is, if there was anything to tell in the first place.

Hadn’t known afterwards if he’d only imagined that not-quite trail petering off into the world outside. The light outside. The sunny day. But the possibility had him searching for neat piles of ashes as he walked the yard until the first big wind had come and carried any hope of closure away with it. Scraped off the top layer of soil and left the world looking new. Left the world looking strange. And left Michael in that strange new world all alone with his thoughts. Them, and that sweet rosy taste on his tongue. The sugar of it slowly winning out over bitter guilt. Left him with a feeling in his chest, this constant roil, this _something_ that seemed to live on the border between fear and hope.

Did he miss David?

Was David still out there somewhere, missable?

He slept at the cave sometimes. Times like tonight, when the thought of people and their matchstick-built houses and his clinging wet sheets and Star’s clinging warm arms had him feeling claustrophobic. Slept in the bed where he’d first touched Star’s naked breasts, had slipped her on like a condom and let her ride him, the whole time watching David watching them from the shadows. Watching David watching him and not really knowing if he was only _picturing_ David there, or if David actually _was_ there. Not really caring either way as Star bounced quick and uneven above him toward the climax, fingers digging, moans high and stuttered and curled up at the ends like questions. As she tensed and clenched and he spilled with the force of that soft hard grip around him. Was warm and wet and spent inside her as David looked on with low-lidded eyes and a knowing grin. Been there too, Pal. As David swiped a pale lip with a searching tongue. Whispered a word unheard. But Michael didn’t need to hear to know what the word was. He knew the shape of those lips around it. The word was a name.

The word was his name.

Michael.

And Michael had cum for David as much as he had for her. So he’d whispered soundlessly back. Made his lips move, shape out the sounds between caught breaths.

David.

He missed David.

The wheelchair laid abandoned in a puddle of dripped-in moonlight. The candles were dusty and dark. Unlit. Felt like he was in a church after hours, the walls of the place ornate and cold with no one to fill them with the warm magic of belief. And Morrison looked down on him, judging, like Jesus. The fountain waited to baptize him in its algae-green waters.

Place smelled like death gone dusty.

Like he was trying to fall asleep inside a giant’s mummified carcass.

He missed David. Could admit that here. Confess it to Morrison looking down on him from above and to the good lord of all night creatures. He missed David.

“I miss you,” he said. “I wish I knew you.” Swallowed. Closed his eyes on the silent dark that answered.

But he dreamt of fingertips skimming his skin, leaving divots behind like in wet slippery clay. Shaping him into some needy, wanting thing. Dipping into him. Leaving behind holes. Dreamt of cold eyes and warm hands and soft lips and sharp sharp teeth.

Dreamt of David.

Woke to flaky dried tear tracks and sticky jeans. Woke up lonely. Wandered home.

The cave was all wrong in the light of day.

The world was all wrong in the light of day.

Missed the night.

Missed the thrilling dark potential of it. The unexpected chaos of the world after the sun. The “try and keep up,” and the ground slipping away before him over the cliff and the fear of it. The thrill of it.

The feel of flesh under his knuckles and the knowing smile on David’s lips afterwards.

Just you.

Just you.

And the question.

“How far you willing to go, Michael?”

And the answer, unspoken. More true now than ever.

All the way, David. All the fucking way.

Try me.

He wasn’t present at school, though he made sure to get his ass in his seat every morning first period. He didn’t make friends because he’d already made friends and they were all dead. Because the kids in school seemed so young and so stupid. They didn’t know anything.

Didn’t look at Michael like they kept some secret and might just tell him if he was very good. If he did what he was told. He ducked out with a bathroom pass sometimes and beat off to the memory of David’s grinning mouth around his name. Bits and pieces of dreams of David’s cold eyes, warm hands, soft lips, sharp teeth. Sometimes to memories of those sharp teeth tearing into flesh, those pale lips painted in blood. Sometimes all it took was the blood. And he came hard. And those days he hated himself the most.

But what was the point of hating himself when he knew he’d just do it again? He wasn’t gonna _stop_.

What was the point of feeling guilty when he didn’t even feel bad?

Remembered the night of his final initiation, perched in that tree and watching. He’d been hard as a rock then, too. Had fought against that as much as the thought of becoming a murderer. Fell and rolled and came to a stop dusty and wanting. Throat burning. Dick hard. And that already hard dick had jumped painfully when David’s eyes had traced its outline through his jeans. And he remembered wanting David to touch it. Wanting David and the blood on his lips. And at the time he’d felt ashamed by his reaction. Felt ashamed of that want. Of wanting David, covered in blood and more beautiful because of the blood. Wanting to lick the stubble of his cheek clean, feel it rough and wet under his tongue. Taste the blood there. Taste David there. David, standing there slick and sexy and tracing Michael’s hard dick with his hard, pale eyes. And smiling. Like he knew a secret. Like he might tell Michael if Michael was very very good.

Sometimes now, it was hard to understand why he’d been so ashamed then. Like slipping into someone else's mind. Thoughts. And trying to make sense of their feelings. Now he just felt dead inside. Now he just felt free inside. Like David was out there somewhere, bending the needle on his moral compass further and further away from true north. Like David was out there somewhere, leading him toward something new.

But what?

Toward what?

Toward him?

Sometimes, usually sitting in fourth period, Michael got the urge to get up and start walking and never ever stop. Sometimes he got as far as the school doors before realizing what he was doing. Turning back. Sometimes he just stared out the window from his seat in class and escaped that way. Left his body behind and flew.

He’d flown before. A few times.

And the first time, dangling in the fog, he’d been convinced he’d fall. Die. Unable to pull himself up or keep his grip, he’d listened to the voices below. Whispers punctuated by David’s low chuckle.

He hadn’t made a choice that night. Hadn’t chosen. His hands had given out just like David knew they would. And he felt cheap and dirty like he wasn’t the first date to be brought to those tracks because David had _known_. But most of all, he just didn’t want to die. To drop and hit bottom and break open on the mist-shrouded rocks below, seagulls pecking at his eyes and insides when they found him.

He dropped anyway. He didn’t have a choice.

But he never hit bottom.

Instead, he’d flown. Floated. Light as a feather and stiff as a board he’d floated to the ground, still screaming. And David’s face had loomed in close through the tight-wrapped fog; David’s hand had been there to pick Michael up from the shaking puddle he’d become in the sand. Was there, patting Michael’s shoulder once he’d got him on his feet, making a show of dusting Michael clean. That hand had been on Michael in the fog. He was sure. David had touched him then.

And David had said “you don’t get to be afraid anymore, Michael.” And he was too close with his hand on Michael’s shoulder like that, really touching him. The disembodied whoops and laughter of the others sounded lost in the far distance. Michael, all alone with David. For the first time there was nowhere else to look. No excuse he could use not to stare.

David’s hand was warm on his cheek, patting him once. Twice. Three times. Patronizing. That secret smirk fuzzy in the fog making Michael want to lean in to get a better look. See it clearer.

“You’re mine now,” that mouth had said.

“I’m not.” And he’d said it to hide the eager thrill those words had riled up in him. At the time he hadn’t realized but…he saw now. How good it had felt to hear those words. Saw that thrill for what it was.

“Hmm. We’ll see.”

And David had widened his smirk. Had bit his pale lip and winked. Pulled away. Called for Marco.

But they hadn’t. Seen. Because David had died. Michael had seen to that.

Michael saw that he always popped his sunglasses on as soon as he walked out the school doors now. Every day the sun seemed a little bit larger in the sky. A little bit brighter. The whole world seemed too bright. Too loud and colorful in the day, in this blasé kind of way that didn’t leave any room for improvisation. Excitement.

He missed the dark.

His skin missed David’s hands, though David had never—had he?—had never touched him like that. And Michael’s name never sounded right when other people said it. When they threw it around casually like luggage at the airport and didn’t—

Sometimes, he didn’t even bother answering to it.

And Star was watching him constantly. Star was worried. She never said a goddamn thing about it but her face was a picture and every word it was worth was spelled w-o-r-r-y. She clung like she was afraid he was going somewhere. She trapped him inside her when they made love. And her eyes said stay. And her hands were everywhere, desperate, holding him in place.

But they weren’t the right hands.

And he missed a touch he’d probably never felt. Something he’d never even had.

Missed a ghost.

Missed half-remembered, confused memories or fantasies of David’s hands skimming his wine drunk—blood drunk—chest and meandering down. Meandering back up again under the material of his shirt. Tweaking a nipple. And that smirk. And Michael’s head had rolled back against the wall that was holding him upright and his eyes were on David, locked on David, entranced, watching to see what happened next. Wanting to. The two of them were hidden from the rest in some sheet-shrouded corner and Michael didn’t give a fuck about anything. Except maybe that pinch and twist on his nipple. Maybe that pale ring of iris around blown-out pupils. Michael watched David, mouth hung open and hungry. So hungry. Brimming with want-you-to-touch-me-touch-me-now-and-say-my-name-while-you-touch-me. Wanting to hear his name the way it was meant to be said.

Michael.

With David’s lips wrapped around it.

He missed—

And sometimes he told Star he was too tired for sex. Pretended she’d believe it. Watched her face say worry a thousand times over without breathing a word then untangled himself from her clinging hands. And on those nights he fled to the cave.

Because there he could confess. There he could dream. Be molded like clay and punctured—fingers dipping inside. He was full of those holes now. And now he felt empty in the sun, like light leaked right on through all those holes in him. Like he couldn’t hold it in. Couldn’t retain the warmth of it.

And his mom hid his sunglasses sometimes when she got desperate. When he wouldn’t answer to his name. She always wanted to talk. To be friends. But he’d had friends and they were dead. They’d all died.

And he’d killed David.

And she was too nice to bear.

His family was—

Sam said Michael had changed. And Michael _had_ changed, Sam was right. And he liked the change. Ran toward it like he had the wind pushing up behind him. Like he was being pulled. Like maybe David was somewhere out there, luring him in closer. Like maybe Michael hadn’t killed him, after all.

Nanook always growled when he saw Michael now. His grandpa threw him thoughtful looks. And Michael came home less and less in proportion to the growls, the looks.

He’d changed.

When Star left, he stopped coming home entirely. Stayed in the cave. Skipped out on school. Found a pack of David’s cigarettes left forgotten and entertained himself by smoking up the stale tobacco. By sprawling in David’s wheelchair throne while he did it. Pretending he knew the taste of David’s mouth. Smoked them one after another till they weren’t around anymore to tempt him.

Till the taste was gone.

And he was hungry, but not for food.

And he missed David. That’s what he mostly did. Missed.

“I miss you,” he’d say.

“Come back,” he’d say.

May Morrison be praised, amen. The words would echo off the walls. And then the silence after would answer his prayer. And he’d light a candle in memory.

In the daylight hours, Michael dreamed of David’s hands. Of his voice. But he forgot the timbre upon waking. And those hands had never been familiar. Had never— And he slept more and more.

Then one day, “I miss you,” was answered by “I can see that.”

And Michael was hard and leaking and slick in his own hand, David’s name on his lips. I miss you I miss you I miss you I’m sorry leaking out of him in a constant heady ooze like precum.

“Don’t let me stop you,” David had said, clearly amused. He pulled up the wheelchair and sat. Leaned forward and steepled his fingers. Watched. Silent.

“I’m waiting, Michael.”

Under those bright cold eyes, Michael couldn’t last long. Even blurred as they were by Michael’s tears.

“Are you real?” Michael asked, finally, rubbing the wet salt tears away from his eyes, pathetic and dirty and covered in his own cooling spunk.

“Define real.”

“Are you alive?” Michael tried, and all it got him was that old I’ve-got-a-secret smile.

“Define alive.”

“Can you touch me?” His voice broke because he _needed_ David to say yes. Needed to feel David’s hands and know if his memories were true or just pretty stories he’d told himself to make it through the day. Because at some point everything had become dependent on those hands. On that barely-remembered taste on his tongue. On the memory of those eyes and that secret-keeping smile. And David’s next words could very easily kill him.

“Define touch.”

Michael groaned, gut shot.

“Touch me!” he demanded, fists dug in the sheets pooled around him. “Please, you bastard, just—once—okay just—please!”

He choked on wanting.

“No,” David had said, sharp. And the word wounded like the lash of a whip. “I don’t think I will. I don’t think I’ll touch you until I know that you can finally follow _directions_.” He walked closer. Loomed over the bed. “You _can_ follow directions now, can’t you, Michael?”

Michael rose up onto his knees.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Stop asking questions, for a start.”

Michael sat back on his heels. Hugged himself and felt more tears coming.

“You’re not even real, are you?” He started to rock just to feel at least that much control. Moved himself forward. Back. Forward. “I’m crazy—I’m finally crazy, aren’t I?” He looked pleading up at David. “Am I?”

And David sighed.

“Come here.” Resigned.

“Why?” Michael tried not to look. Wanted to look. Fought that want. He sounded petulant to his own ears. A pouty child.

“Humor me.” David’s voice came out staccato and strained, like it was Michael’s last chance. And Michael took it. He crawled to the edge of the bed. Looked up. David looked so real. So convincingly real.

His hand looked real as it came up to cup Michael’s face. And Michael could feel that hand. Feel a kind of pressure where it rested. But not the rough drag of skin. Not the warmth that should have been there. It wasn’t—

“Not here. I knew it, I knew—”

“Not here. No. Not technically,” David said, frustrated. And what was supposed to be David’s thumb brushed over Michael’s cheek. Ran the wet delta there. Then David pulled his hand away.

Brought it back to deliver a hard slap.

Michael held his cheek in the ringing silence after. Looked up, shocked. But David merely smirked.

“I need your help and you’re going to help me, Michael.”

He crouched down. Looked Michael in the eye.

“And once you help me,” David said, cocking his head and studying Michael like he was some interesting puzzle to be solved, “I’ll touch you till you beg me to stop.”

And that was all he’d needed to say.

“Kill him for me,” David whispered in Michael’s ear later, in a dark dingy alley. The blacked-out bum on the ground in front of Michael smelled like piss and malt liquor and blood and Michael was thirsty. Hungry. His eyes dropped closed in contentment at the rumble of David’s voice in his ear, clearer even than in dreams. “Eat for me,” it said.

And Michael stalked forward without a thought. Thirsty. Hungry. He’d obey. He’d be good. Very very good.

And David would come back. It was a deal. Would whisper secrets.

“Michael,” he heard through the ecstasy singing in his veins. David’s voice, fond and amused. Michael licked rusty thick liquor from his lip and dropped the bum’s corpse to the ground. Wiped at his face drunkenly.

“Good boy,” David said, voice light and indulgent while what should have been fingers carded through Michael’s sweat-stiff hair. “Now, there’s only one. Last. Thing.”

And at that point, Michael would have done anything. Didn’t David know? Of course David knew.

But not tonight. Nothing more. Dawn was coming on fast and he was tired. So tired.

So all through the long bright day he made do with dreams. Safe in the dark of his night cathedral. In those dreams, David’s voice seemed fresh and almost alive. But David’s hands didn’t feel like hands at all. Felt like pressure points pressed into Michael’s flesh. Like a trick. And Michael slept restlessly, tangled in damp sheets.

The dead of the next night saw him standing dark-eyed and sweating and sick in front of what used to be his house. The shovel in his right hand he speared into the dirt and left to stand or fall as it pleased. The squirming trussed up punk with the long, bright mohawk and the chains on his jeans he let slip from his left shoulder and fall gracelessly to the ground.

David was here. Was under Michael’s feet.

Michael dropped to all fours. Ran reverent fingers through the damp grass. Lay his ear against the spring of it. Heard the slither of worms and stomping insect feet. Felt David Below. Kissed the ground.

“I’m coming,” he whispered. “I’m coming.”

He stood. Jerked the shovel from the grip of the ground and brought it down hard over the young punk’s femur, snapping the bone and stopping that slow caterpillar slink toward freedom. Watched the kid writhe a moment, curious, ignoring the muffled cries and sobs. But he grew bored of the spectacle quickly.

He had work to do.

David was below.

Dig in the shovel. Scoop up the dirt. Dig the shovel. Scoop the dirt. Dig. Scoop. Dig. He didn’t tire. Didn’t ache. No blisters threatened on his hands. He could have dug the hole with those hands alone—had the strength to do it, he was sure.

The grave was empty of dirt in no time.

Soon he was scooping carefully away with cupped palms at the wet mud. David was so close and he couldn’t chance hurting him. Piercing him with the shovel blade like he’d done the kid still crying above. So young. So stupid.

Finally, a white face emerged under his careful ministrations. Pale lips that he kissed the dirt from.

“Sleeping beauty,” he whispered to himself, laughing at the thought.

Pale eyes opened. Took him in. Crinkled in amusement.

And Michael smiled back.

“Brought you something,” he said, staring, voice shaking in its excitement. He hopped clear of the grave easy as thought. Picked the punk up by the ropes that bound him and tossed him with one hand down to David.

They left him there after, filled the ground in over the body and what once was David’s grave was recycled, repurposed. Poor kid. Poor stupid kid.

Michael paid lip service to caring. Old habits die hard. But David was all he’d really cared about in a long time. A long time.

“Touch me?” he begged as they stood on the newly filled grave and David did. Held Michael by the jaw. Ran Michael’s lips with the textured warm pad of his thumb. And a shiver ran through Michael at the contact.

“You’re real,” Michael sighed. And his vision cleared as the tears finally fell. David was really there before him. Standing there pale and dirty, shrunken with hunger. Real.

“Grab a bite to eat with me, Michael.” David said, smiling, and Michael couldn’t tear his eyes away from that mouth. “Whadda you say?”

David’s thumb traced Michael’s lips again and Michael kissed it. Trapped the fleshy pad of it between his teeth and bit down a little too hard. Lifted his eyes back to David’s and smiled around the flesh, releasing him, licking his teeth to savor the salt David’s skin had left behind there.

“Sounds like a date.”

The fat man and his wife—with the meager addition of somebody’s rail-thin elderly mother—had been enough to fill them properly. And the shower in the couple’s nice, air-conditioned house had been large and generous, the water warm. The soap slicked David’s hands as he finally _finally_ touched Michael properly. Washed him clean of the lonely sticky need and of his embarrassment at it. At needing David. Being hungry for him.

It wasn’t strong enough soap to clean the guilt away, though. That had to come out the hard way.

“I’m sorry I killed you,” Michael whispered again, choking on that guilt as it slowly bled out of him. He spat it down the drain. Sick to death of the taste on his tongue.

“You didn’t kill me,” David said again, patient. But the next time the guilty words tried to escape he covered Michael’s mouth.

“How about we put those lips to better use, hmm?”

And Michael laughed. Sank to his knees. Glad to.

Then later, in the candlelit cave, sprawled in the same old bed with nice new sheets that smelled nothing like weeks of caked-on loneliness—more like lavender from the expensive detergent the fat man’s wife had favored—David’s fingers ran over Michael, leaving divots behind like Michael was made of soft, slick clay. They found him already needy and wanting. Shaped him into something new. Dipped inside him. Stretching. Filling. And only when those fingers left him did he feel empty at all. And David was quick to fill him again with his cock. And once he was fully inside Michael, so close they shared the same breath, mirroring movements, he slit open his own chest and let the blood drip free. Let Michael lap it up. Lick him clean till the skin knit. And the taste on Michael’s tongue made him think of dusty glass.

“My blood is in your veins,” David had said during that long ago fight, entreating.

And Michael replied, “So is mine.”

But he didn’t think it was true anymore. It was all David now. Inside.

David had laid claim on Michael a long time ago.

“You’re mine now,” David had said under the train tracks, so proud and trying so hard not to give too much away.

And the taste had been David’s blood in the bottle. Slipped in the mix and slipped over Michael’s tongue along with Max’s. Just a drop. Just enough to mean something.

Michael was David’s now.

David moved inside of him, skin fully on display now and pearly in the moonlight filtering down from above. And Michael captured David’s lips, hungry. And David was his now, too.

They were each other’s. They were all that was left.

Michael as lost as David. Both of them lost together.

“Michael?” he heard, his name called all wrong and waking him in the middle of the long bright day. “Michael are you here?”

He forced his gummed eyes to open. Craned his gaze around to look toward the dark quiet chamber where David spent his days. The sheet slipped over his face and for a moment he imagined he couldn’t smell lavender on it. Thought he caught a waft of loneliness returned.

“Michael, your family is worried about you. Please talk to me.”

He let the sheet fall. Star’s voice. Coming closer. A small dark hand parted the curtain shrouding the bed.

“Michael,” She said, eyes searching him, wide and sad. “Are you alright? You look—”

They both knew what he looked like.

“What do you want?” His voice was cracked. He cleared his throat.

“What do I want?” Her eyes filled with tears and she sat. “What do _you_ want here, in this place, Michael? There’s nothing for you here.”

She was searching his face, gauging if her words were getting through.

“It’s over,” she finally whispered.

Her hand moved slowly to fall on his arm. Her thumb ran over the hairs there, raising goosebumps.

“Come home, Michael. Come home with me.”

“I—” He pulled his arm away. Looked to the quiet dark chamber. “I can’t. He—”

Star looked to the dark chamber too. Nodded. Sad smile catching new tears. She licked them up. Pushed them away with her palms.

“He’s never coming back, you know. He’s dead.”

Michael didn’t take his eyes away from the dark silence of that entrance. He licked his lips. Tasted blood. Nodded absently.

“Okay.”

And the way he said it should have told her all she needed to know. He didn’t look at her again. Ignored the tumble of his name out of her mouth, all wrong. Kept his eyes on the silent dark. Waiting.

And soon enough he was alone.

At least until dark came and he woke to sheets fresh with lavender. Until David emerged naked from the silent dark chamber and pulled Michael up out of bed, nipping at his neck.

“I’m starving,” David said, that secret-keeping smile trained on Michael. Those cold eyes flashing with excitement. “How do you feel about Chinese?”

And Michael smiled. Michael was hungry.

**Author's Note:**

> Love how this turned out. Hope you loved reading it as much as I loved writing it.


End file.
